


Tattoos

by MichelleDV



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Summary: Carol is curious about Daryl's tattoos, and he discusses their origins with her.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Carol Peletier, Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. Family Ties

“Just heard what happened. You okay?”

Daryl turned towards the infirmary door as Carol closed it behind her.

He sat on the patient bed, looking disgruntled, a bandage wrapped like a headband around his forehead.

“’S nuthin’,” he assured her.

“It’s a concussion,” Siddiq countered, lifting his eyebrows at Carol before he finished tying off the gauze.

The bandage sat askew, and some of Daryl’s too-long hair had fallen over it, giving him a flower-child vibe. Carol refrained from smirking, even as concern filled her.

“It ain’t that bad.”

“Thought someone had finally knocked some sense into that thick skull of yours, but…doesn’t sound like it,” she teased before turning to Siddiq. “How bad is it really?”

“He’ll be fine. I stitched the cut and gave him some Tylenol.” He faced Daryl. “I’d recommend staying up for a few hours to make sure your vision stays clear and your eyes don’t dilate. But you shouldn’t be alone. If you get these symptoms or if you get a severe headache, I’ll need to come check on you immediately. Otherwise, check in with me tomorrow morning so I can take a look at that cut.”

“Alright,” Daryl grumbled in agreement. “Told you it ain’t that bad though.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Carol offered.

Siddiq nodded and began cleaning up the medical supplies he’d used. “Thanks. Rosita has watch in just a few minutes, and I’m taking care of Coco, otherwise I’d keep him here for observation.”

Carol waited as Daryl slid his jacket on, then he thanked Siddiq and held the door open for her as they stepped into the darkness. She glanced up at him once as they walked the block and half home, and he seemed alright, if tired, so she waited until after they’d shucked off their coats before speaking.

“You want something warm to drink? That cold has just about seeped into my bones.”

“Sure, thanks.” He got to work building a fire in the fireplace as she filled up the kettle, set it to boil, and placed some of the loose leaf tea the Hilltop had made into a cheesecloth.

_We’ve sure adapted well_, she thought, watching Daryl strike flint against his knife in a home that still had water and windows and walls surrounding it. How far they’d come…and still…still the two of them were so far.

She’d spent a lot of the evening thinking about him as she’d paced back and forth on watch duty. About the constant ebb and flow of their relationship, the kindred connection they shared that no one—not even the king she’d married—could sever. About their shorthand and the way they often didn’t need words at all. How no matter how close they seemed to get, they never moved beyond what they already and had always been: together but not a couple, two but never one, teamed up but unpaired, a duo but individually.

_And why is that?_

The screech of chair legs against the floor shook her out of her reverie, and she turned to find Daryl sitting at the dining room table, the only light in the house coming from the fireplace and above her in the kitchen. 

The kettle screamed, and she poured the boiling water over the teabag, letting it steep for a few minutes before transferring it to the second cup. When it was done, she set the cheesecloth in the sink and carried the two steaming mugs to the table and placed one in front of Daryl.

She sat next to him and held the steaming cup in her hands, wondering how long she should let his thoughts steep before drawing them out of him.

“So what happened?” she eventually asked, her voice quiet.

He looked at her for a moment before staring into his tea. “A few of the crew and me decided to stay past sundown to finish reinforcing the back wall. Didn’t think it’d take so long… We finished it, and I wanted to have everything in order for the mornin’ crew, so we were pilin’ the unused lumber on the stack. Frank didn’t look around—or I didn’t. He swung a board around pretty fast and clocked me good.” Daryl lifted his hand to the extra padding at his temple and felt around the gauze, testing the pain. “Knocked me out good.”

Her brow furrowed. “For how long?”

“Only a few seconds. I’m alright.” Daryl saw the worry on her face. “I’m pretty hardheaded.”

Carol’s expression lightened. “Don’t I know it. Still, Siddiq said you need to stay awake. So awake we’ll stay.”

He huffed in amusement at her cheeky smile. “Alright then.”

Silence engulfed them, the sounds of the compound at day having faded away hours ago with the setting of the sun, and they sat several minutes in the cocoon of paltry light and warmth.

“Siddiq looks like Jesus, don’t you think?”

Carol’s question came out of nowhere, and it took Daryl a few beats to realize she meant the Savior and not their lost compatriot.

He furrowed his brow. “Never thought about it…but I could see it.”

“Right hair length, right skin color, right calling… Physician, healer,” she answered Daryl’s unspoken question.

He nodded noncommittally. “You still believe in all that?”

His tone held no judgment, no doubt, no condemnation—it was merely a question.

Carol took a sip of her tea before answering. “I want to. I think I do,” she answered quietly, choosing her words carefully. “I can’t fathom that this…this is all for nothing, otherwise what are we fighting so hard for?”

He nodded again, considering her words in silence. He knew she didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t have one even if she did.

He’d read the Bible, had even gone to church with his grandmother as a kid—and enjoyed it more than he’d expected to. The teachers had been kind to him, gentle, in a way even his mother had never been. They’d never looked at him with contempt or disgust in their eyes, but instead treated him like a person. Like he mattered. He’d pretended it was a chore to go so his family didn’t take Sundays with grandma away from him, but he’d looked forward to it all week long, those few hours of living in a warmth he didn’t quite understand. The glow of his teachers, the compassion in their voices, the way they hugged him without hurting him...those kindnesses faded by the hour after he got home on Sunday afternoons, and he’d spend the week wishing Ms. Elizabeth, his favorite teacher, would take him home with her.

He hadn’t thought about that in... He shook the memories from his head, hoping beyond reason that Ms. Elizabeth and all the others who’d done him a kindness they’d never know were safe with the Jesus Carol believed in, the one he wanted to believe in too, if only for people like that.

“You can’t un-see it now, can you?” Carol asked with a half-smile.

Daryl came back to the conversation at hand. “No…don’t think I’ll ever look at him the same way again.”

“You’re welcome,” she stated proudly.

He stared at her without emotion, trying to hold in his amusement, knowing the futility of it. She knew how to read him too well after all these years.

“How’s Frank holding up after knocking you around?”

“He’s alright. He’s the one who ran and got Siddiq. First thing he said when he came back is that he felt like a tool.”

“Yeah, maybe an anvil.”

He chuffed at her wit. “On a roll tonight, aren’t ya?”

“Just trying to keep you on your toes—and awake.”

“Ain’t tired just yet.”

“Your head hurting?”

“Nah, the pills helped.”

Carol nodded. “I’m gonna make some more tea. You want some?”

He chugged down the last few gulps. “Sure.”

She grabbed his cup and set about her task. He watched her move about the kitchen, and though most of the time he tried to keep it at bay, tonight he let his mind wander into what-if. What if they’d met before everything went to shit? What if he’d been the father of her children? Would they still be alive?

_Hell yes_, some part of him answered defiantly.

Would they have had a home like this one? Would she move about their kitchen with this ease, wanting to take care of him, even as he longed to take care of her?

Would he have been good enough? Better than his father? Would she have even wanted him?

Doubt flooded his mind, and he stopped the train before it crashed into despair. What-if only made him feel worse about his shitty life, and he had too many things to focus on to get distracted by the worthlessness of his heritage.

He swallowed hard, trying to erase the thoughts from his mind as Carol set the steaming cup in front of him again. He wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat burn some of the maudlin thoughts from his mind.

“How many tattoos do you have?”

His eyes flicked to Carol, who stared at the back of his hand where a skull, three X’s, and a star had been inked.

“I count that as one, so…five?”

“Hmm,” she hummed, peering at him openly. “Do they all have special meanings?”

“We playin’ twenty questions tonight?” he wondered. It came out more teasingly than he felt, though he was grateful considering the path his thoughts had taken.

“Just curious.”

“Yeah, they all mean somethin’.”

“What does this one mean?” Her eyes darted to his hand, then back to his face.

She was digging in a place he’d just mucked around in, and he wanted to avoid the question, but the curiosity in her bright blue eyes and the expression of expectation on her face had him speaking in spite of himself.

“It represents my family. First tattoo I ever got.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and laid his palm flat on the table so they could both see the tattoos. “This,” he began, pointing to the star that sat just below the knuckle of his thumb. “is for my ma. She was the only woman in my family. These three,” he indicated the X’s that sat between the knuckles of his fingers. “are for the men in my family.”

“And the skull?” she asked, caught up in the way the print on his hand told a story.

He swallowed, not wanting to answer, knowing more questions would follow. Questions he wasn’t prepared to deal with, had never dealt with, hadn’t had to think about since the living had come back to life.

He stared at the skull on the center of the back of his hand, with X’s for eyes and bared teeth. A vision of death, of anger. A harbinger of the macabre.

“It represents me.”

Though he stared at the ink on his skin, he saw her eyes flick up to his face.

“But I thought the X’s were…”

Her voice trailed off as she caught on, and he let the silence engulf them, though this time it felt heavy and dank, not at all like before. He’d stalled the conversation with his admission, and he didn’t know if he could even speak the words that would help her understand.

He wanted to though, and the realization stunned him. He’d never wanted to speak of it before. And never had. But he would to her if she asked.

She wouldn’t—he knew—but the revelation that he’d tell her filled him with an emotion he couldn’t explain.

With her index finger, Carol tracked the shape of the skull on his skin, and he watched her movement as though in a trance. Her touch both burned and sent shivers racing across his skin, and several moments passed before he looked up at her.

She stared intently at their hands as she continued to trace the print on his skin.

“Do you want to know about the others?”

His voice, genuine but strained, aching and heavy, surprised even him.

He saw her swallow hard and shake her head before her eyes lifted to his and she gripped his hand in hers.

“Some other time,” she promised.

He nodded, wondering if another time would happen. His heart thundered recklessly in his chest, overcome by both fear and memories.

“Right now, let’s make sure you’re okay,” she said softly, her free hand reaching up to brush the hair away from his forehead and the bandage there.

She squeezed his hand once before letting it go, and he felt emboldened and at a loss as they both picked up their cups and sipped the warm liquid.

“Told you I’m fine.” He managed to sound normal, though they both knew the air sat too thick and heavy at the moment.

“I know,” she acknowledged, letting him have the space he needed. “And I’m here to make sure you are.” 


	2. The Weight of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Daryl spend some time alone, and Daryl reveals more than he ever thought possible.

The storm caught them off-guard, and within a few minutes they were soaked straight through.

Clouds had dotted the sky when they’d left that morning and had continue darkening all day, but with more people joining their community, they needed more food, and he’d elected to go hunting. Carol had asked to join him, and he’d been grateful for the company and the help.

The storm had found them in the middle of a field, setting traps to catch a herd of deer that’d left footprints behind. By the time they’d secured it and made it to the outcropping of rocks nearby, the downpour had eased to a steady rain.

Daryl stood next to her in the shadow of a small overhang, rivulets of water dripping down his face from his soaked hair. He slid the pack off his back and dropped it next to her feet, then peered out up into the sky.

“Looks like it might rain for a while…don’t see any breaks in the clouds. I’m gonna go look for a place to hole up for a while.”

“‘Kay,” she agreed, shivering inside her drenched jacket.

“Be back soon,” he murmured before jogging out from the small curve of protection offered by the rocks above.

Carol scanned the space behind her before removing her own pack, plopping down, and leaning back against a smoother section of the granite to watch the rain fall.

It’d been a long day of traipsing through woods and vale and setting traps for animals they hoped would bite but not get bitten. They’d come across a few of the dead but luckily no hordes and no living. Overall, she’d considered it a successful day. Until now. They’d only intended to venture out one day’s distance, but if the rain lasted too long, they’d have to wait until it stopped for the animals to become active again.

She crossed her arms, trying to garner warmth, but the chill in the rain had invaded her already. Times like this she missed having a weatherman half-correctly predicting the weather. They had a former newspaper editor, used car salesmen, gardener, even a garbage truck driver—but no meteorologist. Carol sighed, trying to curl up tighter against the cold.

She enjoyed the walls and the people in Alexandria when there but, cold or not, the prospect of spending uninterrupted time alone with Daryl didn’t seem like such a bad deal. Over the past year, they’d grown closer in a way she’d never have expected: living under the same roof, taking care of Lydia, helping her heal in a way only the two of them could, trying to keep tensions low and spirits high. The three of them had nearly become a family unit. And though it pierced her heart to think of the way that Lydia had come to join them, she couldn’t begrudge the girl a better life than the one she’d had. It hadn’t surprised her how well Daryl seemed to handle parenting, but it did open up a whole new side of him, and she couldn’t help finding it wildly attractive.

“Hey,” she heard Daryl’s voice through the rain and curbed her wayward thoughts. He suddenly appeared through the rain, and she stood as he tucked himself inside their little hovel.

“Found a place,” he told her, throwing his backpack on as she did the same. “You ready?”

“Lead the way.” _Hopefully somewhere with a fireplace, _she couldn’t help thinking.

But instead of heading out from the mountain, Daryl turned toward it and onto a small, stone-scattered path that zigzagged relatively easily up the side of it. They took care not to slip on the rocks as rainwater sluiced downward, and after a few minutes they arrived at an outthrust with a flat, dry space beneath it large enough for a few small tents.

_Too bad we don’t have one._

“Looks safe enough here,” Daryl explained, setting his stuff down again and shaking rainwater from his clothes as best he could. “Don’t think walkers could get up here, and once it stops raining we’ll be able to see where we are.”

She nodded, laying her own belongings down against the back wall and dropping to rifle through her bag.

“Anything dry?” he wondered.

She pulled out her extra bottle of water, a sweater with an extra pair of socks wrapped inside, a cloth full of bread and one full of jerky meat, a small jar of peaches, and the few medical supplies she always carried. She unrolled the sweater to find most of it and the socks dry. “Clothes are mainly dry. Everything else is alright. You?”

He held up a soaked shirt from his backpack. “Not as lucky as you.”

She watched as he got ready to toss the shirt to the side, then thought better of it as he hung it from a tree branch growing out of the side of the rock wall.

Peeling her jacket off, she hung it on one of the branches near her. “I’m going to change.”

“Alright.”

He turned his back to her, still rifling through his bag, and she pulled the water-heavy shirt over her head, instantly missing its weight as the cold air hit her colder skin. She unhooked her bra and tossed it over the branch, sliding the sweater on, grateful for its bulk. “D’you bring anything else?”

“Got this.” He held up a small, rolled-up blanket covered with a tarp he used for dragging back larger game when it weighed too much to carry. “Ain’t much,” he reckoned, as he laid the tarp out between them.

Carol hung her shirt next to her bra and jacket, which had already created lines of water spots on the ground beneath them, and moved towards Daryl. “Think it’s safe to build a fire in here?”

He turned to see her shivering in a faded pastel pink sweater and her wet, now-skin-tight jeans. She looked so soft, with most of her hair pushed back from her face, the sweater highlighting her cheeks, already pink and glowing from the cold, her eyes a stark, captivating contrast to the sweater that hugged her perfectly.

Daryl forced himself to turn back to his pack. Reprimanding himself for thinking about how good she looked while she stood freezing, he checked the smaller pouches, looking for the matches he’d brought, and quietly cleared this throat. “Think so. If we can get some of these leaves to light.”

Though he faced the other way, Carol nodded, wondering at the sudden strain in his voice. She crouched near the back of their outcropping and gathered the leaves, pine needles, small branches, and other natural detritus.

Matches in hand, Daryl turned toward her and saw her clothes, her bra, hanging on a branch. “Shit,” he mumbled under his breath, hanging his head for a moment to gather himself.

“What?”

He shook then lifted his head, avoiding looking at her clothes. “Let’s start a fire.”

_Yeah, don’t you wish,_ some sarcastic part of him thought.

“Thought that’s what we’re doing?” She gave him a curious look, but he cleared his throat again, ignoring it.

“Right here, I mean,” he recovered, pointing to a spot closer to where the water fell over the lip of the outthrust. “Won’t get smoky in here that way.”

Carol dumped the items she’d found into a small pile, and he set to work arranging them before striking a match.

“Ain’t got much to feed it, so it won’t burn long,” he told her. “Let’s get warm while we can.”

While Carol sat next to the fire, floating her hands over the small flame, he shrugged out of his vest and hung it next to his jacket. His shirt wasn’t doing him any favors, but he didn’t have anything dry. He debated the merits of going shirtless—if he’d been alone, he wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought—but decided against it. Especially with the knowledge that she’d already shed important parts of her own clothing.

He sat a few feet from her, near enough to the fire to warm his hands but not much else, though he doubted sitting closer would help anyway—the fire was small and he was drenched.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the pouring rain as the sun, somewhere beyond the dark heavy clouds, slid beneath the horizon.

“You got a flashlight? Fire aint’ gonna last much longer,” Daryl anticipated as the flames ebbed into embers.

“Mmm,” she hummed in response, hopping up to fetch the flashlight from a small pouch on the side of her backpack.

She turned back towards Daryl, only now, looking at him in the barest of firelight, noticing he still sat in all of his wet clothes. “You should take that shirt off,” she suggested, snagging the bread and jerky she had.

“I’m alright.”

She heard a strange kind of defiance in his voice and wondered at it but continued anyway as she sat near the dying embers. “You’ve got the blanket. Wrap yourself in that. It’s better than staying in that wet shirt.”

“There won’t be anything for you to sleep in if I do that.”

“I’m not taking your blanket. I at least have a dry shirt.”

She turned the flashlight on and set it between them, then unwrapped the food, pulled a section of the bread off, and handed it to him.

He took it gratefully and stayed silent, but she knew she hadn’t won. They’d had this type of argument before—you couldn’t spend months at a time out on the road and not try to take care of each other. Still, he knew she was right. And she _knew_ he knew she was right.

She handed him a few pieces of the jerky and took a few for herself before tying the food back up. They ate quietly, the soundtrack of rain filling the empty spaces between them. How she wished they didn’t exist…

She turned to look at his profile for a moment, seeing consternation and something else she couldn’t name written on his face. She longed to reach out and brush her fingers over his skin, to push the lines of worry from his forehead, run her fingers along his jaw, her thumb over the lips she’d thought of kissing all too often lately.

And what would he do if she did? If she just laid one on him out of the blue? Would he freeze up? Push her away in disgust? Somehow she didn’t think so…

Still, something held her back, at least for now. It needed to be _right_…in a way she’d never worried about before with Tobin or Ezekiel. With Daryl it wasn’t about simply needing comfort, throwing caution to the wind, or trying to create a safe space for a child.

With Daryl it was about _them_. About the trust, friendship, patience, and love they’d built over the years. About wanting to give the best of everything to each other, to protect and take care of one another. About something deeper than companionship and a warm bed. It was an abiding affection and burning passion and selflessness that they deserved after everything they’d survived to find each other.

Yet here they sat, close enough to touch but each in a world of their own.

Too overcome with emotion, Carol stood up and grabbed the flashlight and food, stalking back to her pack and tucking the leftovers away.

Daryl watched her surreptitiously in the bouncing flashlight beam. What the hell were they doing? Why hadn’t he thought to ask someone else to join them?

More and more now, he realized he needed a buffer between them to keep his desire for her at bay. Lydia often filled that role, unbeknownst to her and Carol. He liked having the girl around. Liked, too, the few quiet moments he got to spend alone with Carol when opportunities presented themselves, but more often than not they had people around them.

And he hadn’t realized how much he needed that until this moment, sitting in the dark, listening to the rain, with Carol half-naked and looking beautiful in what little light they had, while something other than sleep beckoned him.

What was he going to do? The rain hadn’t let up, so escaping their dry haven was out. There was no need to keep watch, not so far up the mountain and with the deluge. Sleep seemed the best option, but he feared what the arrangement would be. He knew how best to conserve body heat—and they both needed the warmth—but hell if he could quietly lay next to her under one blanket and sleep.

He watched as Carol kicked off her shoes and hung her wet socks next to her clothes. She put her dry socks on, then padded closer to him, dropping her bag to the ground next to his at the edge of the tarp. Unbuckling her knife from her belt, she sat down and laid it next to her bag. She turned to hand him the flashlight and caught him staring at her.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nuthin’,” he mumbled, turning to peer at the sheet of rain falling several feet in front of them.

Carol lay down on her back, her feet near the dying fire, using her bag as a pillow. “I love the sound of rain,” she murmured after a few moments, her eyes closed. “Been a while since I’ve been outside to listen to it.”

“Wish it was warmer though,” he thought out loud.

She opened one eye to look at him, still wearing his wet clothes. “Could be if you’d use your blanket.”

“Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally. He grabbed the blanket from the edge of the tarp, unrolled it, and floated it over her.

“Daryl,” she reprimanded, leaning up on her elbows. “You know you need this more than I do.”

“I’ll be fine. Lived out in the woods for years, remember?”

She sighed and laid back down. “I remember. At least take your shirt off and hang it up to dry. You’ll be warmer without it.”

“In a while.” He just needed her focus elsewhere. Not on him. Not on the removal of his shirt. Not on how cold he was—and the fire had done nothing to ease the chill he felt. Not on how he had to sleep right next to her.

“Stubborn.”

She said it in a deprecating, teasing way, and he huffed in response. “Look who’s talking.”

“At least I’m trying to stay warm. Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘he doesn’t know when to come in out of the rain’?”

When he didn’t respond, she gave him a glare. “If you decide you need the blanket, you can take it. Or we can share.” She turned on her side facing away from him. “Goodnight, Daryl.” 

“‘Night,” he responded quietly, duly reprimanded.

He was being ridiculous, and he knew it. Without dry wood or tinder, they had no source of warmth except for clothes and body heat. Just like he’d told her, he’d lived in the woods for years. He knew what he needed to do.

But Lord how he wished he had another option.

He stood and peeled his shirt over his head, the cold air sending ripples of gooseflesh across his skin. He hung the shirt next to his clothes, then did the same with his socks, and turned back to their makeshift bed.

Swallowing hard, he sat at the edge of the tarp and arranged his bag for a pillow, situated his bow within arm’s length, laid down on his back, and flicked the flashlight off.

Darkness engulfed their little enclave, but he knew sleep would elude him, his thoughts flowing as fast as the rain that pounded down mere feet from them. How he’d wanted this for so long…to have her next to him. But more than that, to wake up next to her. Not as they’d done over the years, with other people nearby, but like this, in the quiet, just the two of them. Together.

_But not together_, he reminded himself.

He turned onto his side facing Carol, her silhouette barely visible in the dark night, and sighed.

He wanted to apologize for his stubbornness, for being awkward and ignorant when it came to being close to her. For not being the right kind of man. But even that would reveal far more than he could handle at the moment.

Suddenly Carol turned over and faced him, though they couldn’t see each other well in the dark. His breathe caught in his throat at how close she was, less than a foot from him.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Mmhmm,” was all he could manage.

“Here,” she offered, holding the edge of the blanket out towards him. “I warmed it up for you.”

He nearly groaned. “Carol…”

“It’s okay, we can both keep warm.”

He let her drape half of the blanket over him, his mind screaming a warning, his heart pounding a rhythm he only recognized when he was near her.

“G’night,” she whispered.

“‘Night,” he answered.

It was a long time before he slept.

*************************************

Carol awoke to the sound of rain still falling. She rubbed her eyes open to find Daryl’s back filling her vision, and tears instantly welled up.

She’d seen his physique in the past; there was no way to avoid it after all the close-quarter living they’d done through the years. But this up-close, in-your-face vision of scars caused a hot, searing pain to blossom in her chest.

A handful of scars marked him, from the X on his left shoulder and the long diagonal line marring the center of his back to the parallel scars that faded down towards the small of his back. Other, smaller scars held their places too, all reminiscent of a lifetime of heavy, cruel hands accompanied by words that scarred even deeper than what she could see.

How a father could act so brutally and viciously to his child… But then, she’d married someone like that too.

She swallowed down the memories, and though they sat sourly in her stomach, she focused on the man in front of her.

Daryl had had two demons inked onto the largest expanse of unscarred skin, filling the right side of his back. The top one, shaped more like a square, kept its large wings coiled near itself. The one that sat lower, with wings half unfurled, barely touched its twin with the tip of a wing. The tattoo lines looked thicker than most, as though the intent had been to obscure the figures more than define them, and she wondered when he’d gotten them, what had compelled him to mark himself this way.

She allowed her eyes to roam his musculature, noting the depression of his spine down the center of his back, the widening of his shoulders from his hips and waist, the leanness of the muscles lying just beneath his skin.

He probably hated his back in the same way she hated the places someone had scarred her, but he didn’t see himself the way she did, wouldn’t appreciate the way these scars indicated a man who could survive anything thrown his way—and had—couldn’t understand how attractive she found him. She wanted to reach out and touch him, feel the muscles that moved beneath his skin, soothe the hurts of the past with gentleness, kiss the pain away, if only for a moment.

Instead, she did none of those things, merely laid there staring at the beautifully wounded man in front of her.

Sometime in the night he’d turned away from her, pulling most of the blanket with him, and though the cold still nipped at her, she was content to stay where she lay, not disturbing him.

She let herself in enjoy this small pocket of perfection: lying next to Daryl, watching his body move as he peacefully breathed in and out, listening to the rain in the early morning hours, the two of them safe and dry for the time being with no one around to interrupt.

If she could envision heaven…

A while passed before his breathing changed, and she realized he’d woken up.

He lay very still, taking in the sounds of the drizzly dawn and Carol’s breathing—she was awake—before it hit him that his back lay exposed to her view. He knew they’d all see the scars; they’d been impossible to hide after a while. But he’d never gone shirtless because of the shame that washed over him when people saw his family history displayed on his skin.

He closed his eyes again, steeling himself. _It’s Carol. If anyone understands, it’s her._

Still, he hated it. Hated that he’d given in and removed his shirt last night. He’d take a night of freezing over the humiliation of his exposed back any time.

“Why demons?”

Her voice, slightly rough from a night of disuse, came softly, quietly, and completely undid the tendrils of shame that’d wrapped themselves around his heart, and he remembered a few months ago when she’d asked about his tattoos. He knew the topic would come up again, but he didn’t know it’d be like this.

“I wanted to mark my back in a way I chose,” he answered monotonously.

A few beats passed, then, “And why demons?”

The question was the same, but different, and if anyone else had asked, he’d have told them to go to hell, stop being nosy, and stalked off to fume alone.

He stayed frozen in place, wanting to purge the demons that both graced his back and ate him up inside.

“Top one’s my dad…other one’s Merle.” He swallowed hard and forced himself to speak. “The bottom one’s spreading its wings but still touching the other one. Learning its ways. Takin’ on its shape and power. They look alike…because they are alike.”

She could hear the blame and shame in his voice, and her heart ached as he continued, tears pricking her eyes.

“They used it like a canvas, leaving marks in the way that they chose. So I marked it with images of how I saw them. Demons I could never shake from off my back.” He huffed derisively, though she could see his body coiled with tension. “Guess that’s why I wear the angel wing vest. To try to cover up the evil with somethin’ better.”

He thought he heard an “Oh, Daryl” from her, but he couldn’t be sure, and he closed his eyes in shame. His heart beat hard against all the words he’d never said, the scars he’d kept a secret, like a hidden map of horrors on his back.

“May I?” she whispered.

Fear seized him as he realized what she was asking. No one had ever gotten so close—had ever wanted to, really. And he’d never wanted them to.

Until now.

He nodded, unable to form words, and he felt her fingertips against the bare skin of his back, skin that hadn’t been touched since the scars had been dealt. Shivers ran down his spine and across his arms, and he closed his eyes against the coolness of her touch.

Carol traced the demons inked on his back, wanting to purge them and their vile hold on him from him forever. Instead, she soothed his skin with a light touch, around the edges of the tattoos, then gently, slowly over each and every scar that crossed his back.

Daryl didn’t move, probably couldn’t if he’d tried. No one—not even his grandmother who’d nursed his wounds after his father had dealt them out—had ever touched him so reverently. Tears stung his eyes as Carol’s fingertips moved over the hurts of all the years before, eradicating the sensations of guilt and shame, if only for a moment.

Gently, she placed her hand on his back and slid it over the scars, over the memory of his tormentors, to his bicep. She gripped his arm lightly, and then he felt her lips kiss the center of his back and he nearly came undone.

She was unraveling him, moving aside the armor he’d used his entire life and leaving him exposed before her tenderness. He swallowed hard, wanting to tell her to stop, wanting to beg her to continue forever, to never stop making him feel this way. He was a tangled mess, and she was to blame.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

But he knew he should be thanking her, cherishing her for all the ways she’d saved him through the years, all culminating in this precious moment he wanted never to end.

Instead, he let emotions he didn’t know what to call fill his throat and rend him silent as they both listened to the falling rain, her hand still washing its healing across his scarred and fragile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda broke my own heart with this chapter. If it made you feel anything, I'd love to know. Feedback is the fuel that feeds the fires of writing...

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. More chapters are coming!


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